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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23997907">London Fog</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoncellbros/pseuds/lemoncellbros'>lemoncellbros</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of past episodes, Nightmares, PTSD John, Realisation, after s4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:34:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,395</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23997907</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoncellbros/pseuds/lemoncellbros</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has a secret. Sherlock Holmes finds it out.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>122</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>London Fog</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John Watson has a secret. <br/>It's not a big one, mind you. It's quite small, actually. But it's enough to make him lock his bedroom door whenever he turns in for the night. <br/>The secret is this: he has trouble sleeping. <br/>Alright, that's not the actual secret. Anyone who's met him would know that. That's only half of the secret. The second half is much more embarrassing. <br/>John Hamish Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Veteran of Bart's (bloody) Hospital, the supposed "strong one"-because let's be honest, Sherlock is much more emotional than he is-uses a meditation app to get to sleep at night. <br/>He didn't want to, at first. It was something his therapist recommended for him. This app called SleepSpace, which supposedly had meditations, songs, and guided exercises to get to bed. <br/>John, being John, thought it was stupid. <br/>But, he'd made her a promise. One night, John, she had said, just try it for one night and see if it helps. <br/>After the year John had had, he wasn't keen on breaking promises.<br/>So he did it. When he went to bed that night, he turned on the app and selected a guided meditation called "London Fog" (which he admittedly snorted at). He didn't want to fall asleep. In fact, he was working very hard not to. <br/>He was snoring within twenty minutes. <br/>It was embarrassing. Humiliating. But he didn't really care. That had been the best sleep he'd had since…well. Since the morgue. <br/>He woke up that morning to Sherlock, downstairs in the kitchen, rocking Rosie side-to-side while blowtorching an ear. John almost smiled, but he caught himself. It was too early for smiling. Neither of them could do that yet. <br/>The next night, he fell asleep again. And again. And again. And again. Soon enough, the mere sound of the meditations starting made his eyes flutter shut. And every morning, he woke up to Sherlock and Rosie in the kitchen. <br/>Sherlock must have noticed the change in his sleep, but he didn't say anything. No doubt he'd already worked it out. <br/>John thought the app would remain secret. Foolish.<br/>It was an early November in London, just around that time when more misty rain starts to fall than usual; when the light from the streetlamps are big, swirling clouds of orange and yellow. It's his favourite time of year. He and Rosie were taking a walk through Kensington Gardens when Sherlock texted him. </p><p>Case. Overnight in Brighton. Lestrade says it's at least an 8. Rosie can stay with Mrs. Hudson. <br/>SH</p><p>Try as he might, John can never say no to him. <br/>That is how, hours later, he ends up at a little Bed and Breakfast with Sherlock, wishing desperately that they had more rooms. <br/>It's not like he and Sherlock haven't shared a room before, or hell, even a bed. That doesn't bother him like it used to. No, it's that he won't be able to sleep, because he would rather visit Eurus than let Sherlock hear his app. But despite his pleading, they can't open a spare room for John. Apparently there's a wedding. So he sets down his overnight bag, puts on his coat, and does his best not to think about the fact that he is going to be seeing Culverton Smith tonight. </p><p>The case itself is extremely interesting. Two men found dead inside of a greenhouse, growing flowers out of their ears and noses. Sherlock, naturally, takes to it like a fish to water, leaping around the crime scene and pushing air out of the way to make room for his mind. John determines, fairly quickly, that the men died from asphyxiation, which makes sense considering the flowers, but obviously disappoints Sherlock. When they finally go back to the hotel, Sherlock reciting evidence and possibilities like a script, John has forgotten all about the rooming situation. <br/>That is, until they're standing in front of the door. <br/>Click. There goes the lock. John feels his heart start to beat faster. <br/>Soldiers, he thinks. I made it years without that app. I'll be fine. <br/>Still, he finds himself desperately hoping that this place has good coffee. <br/>After they both take showers, Sherlock turns out the lights with a simple "goodnight, John". <br/>It will be anything but. </p><p>***</p><p>It's cold. Freezing, actually. The room he's standing in is lit up with electric blue, and there are strange shelves in the walls. He takes a step forward. It resonates with a metallic clang. Inhale. Exhale. His breath climbs up through the vents. He's curious. Those shelves. It creaks as he slides it open. There's a blonde woman lying inside, wearing a big plastic towel over her body. She's sleeping. He touches two fingers to her neck. She doesn't have a pulse. <br/>She's dead. <br/>Stumbling backward. Falling. Scrambling away and hiding in the corner. <br/>That was Mary. <br/>He didn't recognise his own wife. <br/>The big metal door slams open. Teeth and big, bulging eyes. The smell of rubbing alcohol. Culverton Smith. He's here. <br/>His pulse quickens. <br/>There's another man with him. Big coat, sharp cheekbones, curly hair. Sherlock. No. <br/>He's lying on the table, being poked at with shiny, sharp things that John can't remember the names for. There's a bloom of red across the floor. He's bleeding. <br/>Sherlock Holmes is bleeding. <br/>John tries to get up. Struggles, screams out. He can't. He's frozen in his hiding place, watching as Culverton picks the detective apart. <br/>And then there's the red again. He hears it. <br/>"No, God, no. Please, no." <br/>That's him. <br/>And suddenly there's a big building in front of him, and a long stretch of pavement, and a crowd of people. He's running in slow motion while everything else moves in real time. Sherlock is carried away on a bright yellow stretcher, and John can't get to him.<br/>Black this time. <br/>Lots and lots of black. <br/>Mary has a bright red flower in the center of her chest. Sherlock has one in the side of his head, in his stomach. The cabbie's got one in his stomach, too. Moriarty has one in his mouth. Rosie is picking the flowers, placing them on the bodies in the field. She points, as if telling him to look. He doesn't want to look. He feels like he's going to vomit. <br/>"John."<br/>A rumbling in the clouds above. John is telling Rosie to come inside. <br/>"John!" <br/>Rosie is still picking flowers. <br/>Sherlock gets up from the field, gives his flowers to Rosie. Grabs John's shoulders. <br/>"Get up. Come on, John. Wake up." </p><p>John gasps and sits bolt upright in his bed. Sherlock has his hands on John's shoulders. <br/>"Are you alright?" <br/>John can't make words come out of his mouth. He gasps again, trying to get air. Sherlock's eyes widen. <br/>"Breathe, John. In through the nose and out through the mouth." Sherlock is scanning through his invisible information again. John tries to inhale and fails. <br/>"Come on, John. Inhale." <br/>There's air in his lungs again. He keeps breathing along with Sherlock's instructions. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Again. Eventually, he feels his heart rate return to normal. The trembling in his hand steadies. Sherlock is evaluating. <br/>"John. Are you okay?" <br/>John swallows and exhales. "Yeah. I'm fine. Good." <br/>Sherlock's eyes narrow. "You were shouting." <br/>That's confusing for a second, until he remembers what Sherlock had to wake him up from. <br/>"Oh. Yeah. Sorry, didn't mean to wake you up." <br/>Sherlock releases his hands and looks at him. John knows that look. He's deducing. <br/>"What was it about?" <br/>"Um…" John gets out from under the sheets and grabs his water bottle off the nightstand. "I dunno. Can't remember." <br/>"Yes, you can." <br/>Damnit, he's smart. John takes a sip from the water. It's slightly warm. He grimaces and sets it back down. <br/>"Look, I'm fine. Sherlock. Okay?" He can't meet his eyes. If he does, everything might spill out. Sherlock stands. "You're not." <br/>"Sherlock-" John tries to calm the wave of frustration rising in him. He can see that frightened, apologetic look threatening to return to Sherlock's eyes. "Sorry. It was um…about you. Mostly." And there it is. The apology, incoming. Sherlock's face has turned down and retreated back. He looks vulnerable, and John hates that he can do that to him. Hates it. <br/>"What did I do?" His voice is much softer now. It shouldn't be soft. It should be loud and controlling and dramatic and sharp. A knot ties in John's chest. It's his fault. <br/>"You didn't do anything. It was just…old things. Coming up. That happens." Damn it, his hand is still trembling. It's not even real. �"Like what?" There's a hint of desperation in Sherlock's voice. He wants to know how to fix it. How to solve it. Just like everything. <br/>John swallows. If he lies, he'll only hurt him more. And he doesn't want that. He sits back down on his bed and motions for Sherlock to join him. He does so, cautiously. John exhales. Grits his teeth, shakes his head. Pulling it together, just like his dad taught him. <br/>"You know how I am, okay? So just-don't…freak out. It's not  you. Alright?" <br/>Sherlock nods. John exhales again.<br/>"Alright. It was about the morgue. And you were there. With Culverton. He was…um." John blinks and swallows. "Dissecting you, a bit."<br/>John sees Sherlock tighten, recoil, and blink. Three times. "Ah." <br/>"And, uh-" John presses his hand to his mouth. "The-" He stops. They both know what he means. Sherlock nods. "Yes." <br/>"Yeah, well. Also there was a field, and you and Mary and other people were wearing these red flowers that Rosie picked out for you." <br/>Sherlock almost smiles, but John is still going. <br/>"I think you were dead." <br/>His half smile drops. "Oh." <br/>"Yeah. I think that's when you woke me up." John sighs. "Thanks for that." <br/>"Yes." Sherlock picks up his camera phone from the nightstand and checks the time. It's three in the morning. Great. "Are you planning on sleeping again?" <br/>"I dunno. Might not end well." <br/>Sherlock suddenly turns his head and squints. "Hang on. You've been sleeping better lately."<br/>"Oh. Uh, yeah. Don't know why-" Shit. <br/>"Why not tonight?" Sherlock is deducing now, looking John up and down. John makes the mistake of glancing at his phone. Sherlock, as always, notices. He picks it up, because he never asks, and unlocks it immediately. John really should change his password. <br/>"Sherlock, don't-" <br/>"Sleep Space." He overenunciates, as though he's making room for the words in his mouth. John sighs. There's no point in arguing now. <br/>"Yes." <br/>"What is it?" Sherlock is already going through the app, squinting at the different functions and pressing random icons. �"What do you think?" John presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth and grits his teeth. He knows what's coming. <br/>Sure enough, Sherlock clicks on one of the guided meditations. London Fog. John could almost laugh at that, if he wasn't currently heating up with embarrassment. Sherlock presses play. There are sounds of buses and gentle chatter, and then the voice starts up.  <br/>"Ah, London. One of the most infamous cities in the world-" <br/>Sherlock presses pause almost instantly. He looks at John, blinking and confused. <br/>"This is how you sleep?" <br/>"Yep." John tries to ignore the fact that he must be blushing. "Therapist recommended it." <br/>"Ah." Sherlock looks at the phone, and then, suddenly, he's laughing. That giggle that John first heard the night they chased that cab. Before he knows it, he's laughing too. <br/>"Don't tell anyone." <br/>"'Course not." Sherlock smiles at him and puts the phone back on the nightstand. <br/>They sit in silence for a moment, listening to the soft patter of rain outside. Sherlock stands and opens up the curtains. There's a light fog outside, and the world is dark except for the streetlamp on the sidewalk, casting little rays of orange onto the street. <br/>"Well then." Sherlock turns and claps his hands, which would be very businesslike if not for the striped pyjamas he's wearing. "Breakfast?" <br/>John lets out a laugh. "At three in the morning?"<br/>"Three thirty-one now, at least. There must be somewhere that's open." Sherlock pulls a dress shirt and trousers from his suitcase. "Come on, get dressed." <br/>"What about the case?"<br/>"I have it solved already. I'll email the culprit to Lestrade." <br/>John stands and grabs a jumper from his overnight bag. "You sure?" <br/>"Absolutely. After all, Rosie will be needing her afternoon biscuits and honey. We couldn't possibly deprive her of them." Sherlock grins and sweeps into the bathroom. <br/>John looks after him, shaking his head, and pulls his jumper over his vest. Almost laughs.<br/>"Sherlock?"�"Yes, John?" <br/>"Nevermind. Hurry up." <br/>Sherlock appears in a few minutes, looking as proper as ever despite the hour. "There's supposed to be an excellent café a few minutes away. If we're very convincing, they may let us in." �John smiles. Hesitates. "C'mere."<br/>"What for?" <br/>"Just come here." <br/>Sherlock obeys and turns around. "What is it, did I forget something?" <br/>"No, you didn't." John smiles again-he can't seem to stop doing that-and reaches up, gently pulling Sherlock down to him and giving him a quick kiss. They've never done anything like that before, not even close, but it feels natural somehow. Like he's been doing that his whole life. Sherlock blinks. He looks as though he's trying to re-program his brain.<br/>"Why did you do that?" He speaks slowly, quizzically. Like the day John told him that he would be his best man. <br/>"Because you're a great git with a big coat who woke me up when I was screaming. Because you hold my daughter in your arms while you blow things up in the kitchen." John leans in and kisses him again, and this time Sherlock reciprocates. John pulls away and hums a little. "Because I think that this is how it's supposed to be." <br/>Sherlock smiles that tiny, secret one he makes when he thinks nobody's looking. "Yes. I think so." He takes John's hand and the two of them walk out of the hotel and straight to the street, where a light mist is hanging in the air. Sherlock glances at him. <br/>"You're smarter than you look."<br/>John smirks. "Pretty damn smart, then." <br/>Sherlock presses a kiss to his forehead. "Pretty damn smart."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope you enjoyed this fic! I've always had a few little ideas about how John is able to sleep at night-because, despite having help from crime solving, it can't possibly work all the time. Thank you for reading!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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